


dear someone

by downtheroadandupthehill



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 15:36:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downtheroadandupthehill/pseuds/downtheroadandupthehill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few days later Combeferre starts leaving brand new art supplies strategically around Grantaire apartment—on his nightstand, in front of the television, even in the refrigerator. He’s heard him wax poetic enough times about the texture of fresh oil pastels and the smell of a new box of watercolor pencils to know that those are things that can distract him, too, make him smile and get his hands messy again.</p>
<p>When they leave streaks of color on Combeferre’s ribs and hips and and the bridge of his nose, he knows that he’s done something right. Something good. Nothing permanent or undoable, but something, because even if he thinks Grantaire deserves more, Grantaire doesn’t think so, and there’s no moving past that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dear someone

“I won’t be at the Musain Thursday night. Make sure Bahorel and Courfeyrac are doubly obnoxious to make up for me, yeah?” Grantaire says. He’s lying with his head in Combeferre’s lap, trying in vain to read Plato’s  _The Republic_ upside-down while Combeferre reads it right-side-up.

He pauses in his reading to glance down at Grantaire, fingernails scraping gently against his scalp. “Why not?” Combeferre asks.

“Fencing match. Usually they’re on Tuesdays but this week they got pushed back to Thursday.”

“Do you want me to come?” He rarely says things without thinking them through but he wishes he’d thought more about that one—he knows what Grantaire’s answer will be to a question like that.

“Nah, you don’t have to. It’s not a big deal,” Grantaire tells him, and usually when people say things like that they don’t mean them, they’re just giving the other person an easy way out. But Combeferre knows that Grantaire means it—that he genuinely believes it’s nothing, not worth Combeferre’s time, and Combeferre is determined to prove him wrong.

“I’ll be there. Enjolras and Courfeyrac can deal without me for a night,” he promises.

True to form, Combeferre does not only plan on attending the fencing match. He plans on becoming informed, paying attention, and being capable of making intelligent conversation about the event, afterwards. So he spend the next three days doing research on various Wikipedia pages about the sport and watching videos of matches on YouTube—and subtly trying to figure out if Grantaire competes in sabre, foil, or épée.

There’s a shadow of disappointment on Enjolras’s face when Combeferre tells him that he won’t be at Thursday’s meeting, a shadow that fades when Combeferre tells him why.

“Wish him good luck for me, if I don’t have the chance to,” Enjolras says, and it’s sincere instead of dismissive or annoyed.

On the day of the match he feels a little out of place in the tiny group of spectators, squinting through his glasses to try and figure out  _what the hell is going on_. Because while Combeferre can now recite the history of fencing and name the sport’s official governing body, he still can’t quite understand what’s happening when the fencers actually fence.

But when Grantaire wins—which takes a while for Combeferre to realize, what with having no idea what’s going on and all—he pulls off his mask and grins in Combeferre’s direction. Sweaty and red-faced and beaming (which is all much more attractive than it ought to be, especially when combined with his obvious athleticism and Combeferre’s knowledge of just how good he looks beneath the uniform), and Combeferre is very glad that he came.

…..

They disagree over who gets to cook dinner, a disagreement which occurs at least three times a week. They still live in different apartments, in theory, and it’s become a competition every evening to race to the other’s apartment with bags of food, ready to try out a challenging new recipe or an old favorite.

(And once they ended up at each other’s places, waiting for the other to return to his home. Grantaire caved first.)

They’re both excellent cooks, which is the problem. Combeferre learned from his mother, and Grantaire spent half a year in culinary school until he decided he liked Classics better (and finally ended up in the visual arts, which was his original major to begin with.)

Eventually, Combeferre came up with the idea that they take turns—Grantaire pouted, but relented.

Tonight’s Combeferre’s night to cook dinner, and at his apartment. His place was awkward, once, because he lives with Enjolras, but it’s gotten easier as time has gone by. Tensions have eased—most notably the ones between Grantaire and Enjolras, and he even joins them for supper or movies or studying every once in awhile.

“Enjolras is at the library,” Combeferre tells Grantaire, when the artist comes stomping in, the door left unlocked for him. Because he knows that Grantaire won’t  _ask_ , pretending not to care at all instead of risking Combeferre’s feelings.

“Does that mean we have the place to ourselves for the night?” Grantaire asks, as he comes into the kitchen and drops his bag on the table.

“I have to go to the library in a few hours, too, you know.”

Combeferre makes chicken and Grantaire works on dessert. Their elbows knock together as they work and Combeferre listens to Grantaire sing along badly to whatever new hipster band he’s into, playing in poor quality from his cell phone.

Grantaire gets pink strawberry cake batter on the corner of his mouth, and Combeferre tries to ignore it, chopping vegetables and keeping his head down so Grantaire doesn’t see his smile. Then another dollop of batter appears in the other corner of his mouth, and then a streak beneath his lower lip. Combeferre pretends not to notice.

“Come the fuck on,” Grantaire finally demands. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Do I have to paint my whole damn face with batter to trick you into kissing me?”

Combeferre raises his eyebrows, dips his index finger into the cake batter, and  _sucks_ , tasting sugar on his tongue, watching Grantaire’s reaction over the frames of his glasses.

A groan is wrenched from between Grantaire’s pink, strawberry lips, and Combeferre finds himself pressed against the countertop, pressed against Grantaire’s hips.

“Not all of us can pretend to be immune to our boyfriend’s considerable charms,” Grantaire mumbles, before stealing a kiss and grinding his hips in a slow circle against Combeferre’s.

They end up having to order pizza for dinner.

…..

But then Grantaire has days like  _this_ , sometimes weeks like this. When everything is bad and he isn’t good enough and he can hardly stand to get out of bed in the morning, let alone leave his apartment. So times like these is when Combeferre comes over without asking, using the spare key under the vomit-stained welcome mat to get inside without knocking.

He brings movies that Courfeyrac has recommended and stops at the grocery store on his way, because times like these are the only times Grantaire allows him to cook without any hassle. (He misses his presence in the kitchen, though, as he hovers over the pan full of stir fry or pasta or whatever it is he’s making tonight.)

His boyfriend doesn’t argue or protest over it—he just slumps into him when he finally joins him on the sofa, picks obediently at his food until Combeferre eventually takes his plate away and they can curl their fingers together and pretend it isn’t happening. Or at least Grantaire can, for a few hours, and Combeferre is just glad he can be there for him.

A few days later he starts leaving brand new art supplies strategically around Grantaire apartment—on his nightstand, in front of the television, even in the refrigerator. He’s heard him wax poetic enough times about the texture of fresh oil pastels and the smell of a new box of watercolor pencils to know that those are things that can distract him, too, make him smile and get his hands messy again.

When they leave streaks of color on Combeferre’s ribs and hips and and the bridge of his nose, he knows that he’s done something right. Something good. Nothing permanent or undoable, but something, because even if he thinks Grantaire deserves more, Grantaire doesn’t think so, and there’s no moving past that.

“You just think you can make me better because of your annoying, unfailing belief in humanity, or some shit,” Grantaire mutters, as he nuzzles against Combeferre’s neck and breathes him in.

“I won’t make you better,” Combeferre says. “But I am here for you, regardless.”

“See? Your annoying belief in humanity.” He laughs, and Combeferre slings an arm around his waist to pull him closer.

…..

Combeferre has days, too. Not like Grantaire’s—not full of unshakeable melancholy and despair, but hard days nonetheless.

And it’s stupid, Combeferre tells himself, tries to rationalize within the context of human experience. He has no reason to be jealous, no reason to doubt in Grantaire’s feelings for him (except he has those reasons, tucked close to his chest and hidden where no one can see)—but so what if he does? Combeferre has never thought of himself as the sort to lose his head over something like love. Love is wonderful, love is human, but he shouldn’t cling to it like he does, he should know better than that. If it ends, it ends, and if Grantaire is still in love with Enjolras, then there is nothing that Combeferre can do about that.

Sometimes he wonders if he is only second-best. If his glittering and beautiful best friend is unattainable, then why not reliable, good Combeferre? He’s never been jealous of Enjolras until Grantaire, didn’t even occur to him to be.

They don’t fight like they used to, Grantaire and Enjolras. Grantaire drinks less, argues less, though Enjolras’s eyes still flash to him in anticipation of a debate several times a week. But sometimes they do fight, voices rising while Grantaire smirks and orders another beer (and checking to see if Combeferre needs another drink, too.) Talking turns to shouting turns to Enjolras wild-eyed and chest heaving, turns to Grantaire slouching further in his seat wearing a frozen smile to mask his hurt.

And it’s not that Combeferre wishes that his best friend and his boyfriend would stop fighting with another—that’s just how it is, how they relate to one another, and he knows that they are friends in spite of it.

He wonders if he’s not enough, and Grantaire seeks out the attention—any way he can get it, even aggressive and angry—of someone as glorious as Enjolras.

But he can’t bring himself to ask because he knows, he knows, he’s wrong, he has to be. After another inevitable argument, Grantaire nudges Combeferre’s ankle with his foot, shrugs, and tries to smile for him. A real one, this time, and he takes his hand on the way home.

“Your hands are always cold,” Grantaire complains, and proceeds to stuff Combeferre’s hands in his back pockets. “Looks like we’ll have to walk like this the whole way back.” He cranes his neck to stick his tongue out at Combeferre, and at least he isn’t bothered by his fights with Enjolras like he used to be. It’s something.

He feels a little selfish for the first time in his life, as he tucks his chin into the curve of Grantaire’s neck and hums against his skin.


End file.
